


Walk, Don't Run

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F1slash Summer Slash 2006, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico wants to stand on his own two feet - even if to do so will cripple him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk, Don't Run

The hotel is on one side of Tian'Anmen Square. Nico sits on the dark marble surround of the bathtub and looks out of the 90-degree angle window at the street below. His feet are in the tub, warm water slowly creeping from his ankles up his shins as he waits for the bath to fill. The anonymous perfume of the hotel bubble bath lingers in the air.

Outside, the sky above Beijing is heavy with sand clouds. The receptionist has warned them of the possibility of a storm later. China's capital has been plagued with dust storms from the Gobi since before the Mongolian hordes swept in from beyond the red desert. Nico thinks they were lucky to land ahead of the storm. He's heard that, sometimes, the weather conditions are so bad that flights have to be rerouted.

But they're here now, he and Michael, housed in separate rooms while they both decide the rules of engagement. Not quite lovers and not quite friends, they're in that large patch of grey area in between. Things could go either way.

Nico is still trying to justify this. The fact that he wants to justify it is reason enough for him to feel nervous about taking the relationship further. That's why he asked Michael to come with him to Beijing, to have a few days away from pit and paddock in Shanghai.

He'd picked Beijing because he wanted to visit the Great Wall of China and the Forbidden City. His other choice had been Xi'an, the country's capital for over a thousand years, but when he'd put forwards the idea, Michael had said "Beijing," and that was that.

Below him, a steady stream of people hurries past the hotel: on foot, on bicycles, in cars. Even through the thickness of the double-glazing, Nico can hear the shrill ringing of bicycle bells and the honk of car horns. Occasionally there's the sound of a police car, its siren noisy and invasive.

Nico slides along the side of the bath to turn off the taps. They drip a little and then fall silent. He splashes his feet in the tub, looking at the blush of heat that's risen up his shins from the hot water. A few bubbles come unanchored from the drift of foam, and he bats them away, watching them fall.

He returns to the end of the bath and prepares to slip into the water. Before he does, he gives another curious glance outside. Tian'Anmen Square is vast and empty even with hundreds of people in it. For a moment he feels lonely up here in the luxurious bathroom, but then he lowers himself into the bath with a sigh and forgets about it.

Nico was four years old when the tanks moved in to stop the student demonstration in Tian'Anmen Square. That same year saw the fall of the Berlin Wall.

He doesn't remember either event.   


* * *

Michael is waiting for him by the concierge's desk. Nico took his time styling his hair, wanting to look his best. He hopes that Michael will say something flattering, but instead he remarks, "You're late," and Nico feels crushed.

A driver has been assigned to them. He's big for a Chinese: he looks like he should be a bouncer outside a Monaco nightclub rather than a tour guide. He calls himself Robinson, speaks with an American accent, and drives a shiny black Mercedes.

Both Nico and Michael wince at the Mercedes, but they don't say anything.

When Robinson discovers that they're German, he tries out a few phrases that he's picked up from guidebooks and businessmen. His teeth flash at them in the rear view mirror. Robinson laughs a lot.

Nico can't look away. At first he thinks that the Chinese man is laughing at him. He smiles politely and runs his fingers through the coxcomb fall of his hair. He wonders if he tried to speak Finnish with the same amount of enthusiasm as Robinson tries to speak German, would the Finnish media forgive him his ignorance?

Michael makes a few small comments, but mostly stays quiet. Nico's anxiety transfers from Robinson to Michael. When he looks sidelong at him, he sees that Michael is staring out of the window, his fingers tapping impatiently on his thighs. Some F1 drivers can't bear to relinquish control even in chauffeur-driven cars. Nico hadn't thought that Michael could be one of them. Then he thinks perhaps it isn't the driving that's the problem, but the company.

"You want to see the Great Wall, yeah?" Robinson drawls.

Nico is startled from his thoughts. With another glance at Michael, he realises he has to take control of this. It was his idea, after all. "Yes," he says, nodding. "Is it far from Beijing?"

"About forty minutes, son. I'll take you to Mutianyu. Yeah, it can be a bit touristy there, but on a day like this? You'll be just fine. Won't hardly be anyone to bother you up on the top."

Nico isn't sure how he should take being addressed as 'son', but he decides to let it go. Instead he asks, "Why won't anybody be on the wall?"

Another flash of those teeth, and Robinson laughs. "Because of the storm."

The distance passes quickly. Nico leans his head against the leather trim of the Mercedes and watches the gathering clouds. They seem less red as they travel further away from the city. By the time they reach Mutianyu, the clouds look normal, dark smudges of grey over the mountains; and the air temperature has dropped.

Robinson tells them he'll wait in the car. Michael gets out and puts on his sunglasses. Nico considers doing the same but the sky is so dark he worries that he'll look foolish.

He smiles at Michael and nods up at the expanse of the Great Wall sitting high above them on a narrow ridge of mountain. Even from ground level it's spectacular: honey-brown faced blocks of stone built into watchtowers and garrisons.

"Race you to the top!" Nico calls, and he takes off across the car park. There's a pause, and then his heart leaps when he hears Michael come running after him.

They dash up the steps. Some are patched with concrete. Most are worn smooth, the rock slippery beneath their feet. Nico's trainers squeak occasionally, especially when he turns a corner to jump at the next set of steps. He laughs as he runs, getting breathless fast. Michael remains silent, his concentration absolute as he powers past Nico with long strides.

At the top, they catch their breath. Michael leans forward to rest his hands on his thighs. There's a patch of sweat on the back of his shirt. Nico feels pleased at this sign of humanity. The air feels thin, although they're not that high up.

Nico brushes his hair from his eyes and walks up the long, sloping steps that lead to a watchtower. Michael may have been the first to the top of the wall, but Nico wants to be the first to the watchtower, the highest point of the Great Wall at this point of its vast, serpentine length.

He puffs up to the tower and stands with his back to the doorway, looking down at Michael and along the snake of the wall. It dips and rises over valleys and peaks; so awe-inspiring it almost defies description. Nico's mind goes blank as he looks at it.

"Wow," he says, and then laughs at the inadequacy of his reaction. "It's big."

Michael nods as he joins him at the tower. "It took centuries to build."

"Well, they say Rome wasn't built in a day," Nico offers by way of comparison. "Although I guess this is different."

Michael grunts. He reaches up and pats the stonework of the watchtower, then dusts off his hand. "Rome has a purpose. This didn't. Genghis Khan and the Mongolians didn't even have to try to climb it. They just went around it. What good is the biggest wall on earth if it doesn't protect you?"

"Not all boundaries need to be about defence," Nico argues. "They can also be about show. About power."

"An empty gesture."

Nico follows him with his gaze as Michael goes into the watchtower. He wonders how a display of power could ever be an empty gesture, and then he swears that when he is a seven-times WDC, he will not be so ungrateful.

He goes out of the occluded daylight and into the darkness of the watchtower. Through the door on the other side, they walk along a flat stretch of the wall until the stones tumble away and a jagged gap opens up. A tree is growing out of the cracks. They can see the amount of work that must have gone into building the wall.

They stand there in silence for a moment, and then Michael turns back.

Nico wonders if Michael feels inferior to the Great Wall. He knows he does.   


* * *

Robinson drives them back into Beijing. The storm clouds are gathering, but Nico insists on visiting the Forbidden City. The Mercedes pulls up outside Tian'Anmen Gate, and they get out under the watchful gaze of Chairman Mao's portrait. The green and gold-uniformed soldiers look at them, too: impassive and briefly curious as they pass.

Beneath the gate, they enter into the first courtyard, the former imperial stables stretching out on right and left. They pay at the second gate and go through into a world beautiful and strange: a place of carved stone clouds rising along stairways, of tiled dragons and marble phoenixes, of peeling red-painted wood and stacks of grey shingle. Peculiar weathered stones are mounded in courtyards beside great empty bronze vessels. Delicate paintings of roses, faded over two hundred years, decorate the ends of colonnades. The long, swooping roofs are supported by beams that have peacock eyes painted onto their circular-cut ends.

There are still plenty of tourists around, despite the threat of the weather. Most of the visitors are Chinese, and within moments, Nico finds himself being photographed. He smiles awkwardly and then looks at Michael. They don't seem so interested in him, and this makes Nico feel both strange and triumphant. For a wild moment he thinks he's made it – he's a superstar, people recognise him rather than Michael!

But not a single one of the Chinese asks for his autograph. Instead they hurry their wives and children into shot. One of the women turns against him and smiles, reaching up to touch his hair. Her children poke at his arms and repeat one word over and over, giggling.

Nico realises that they're admiring him because he's pale and fair, not because he's a famous F1 driver. The knowledge disappoints him, but he puts on a brave face and continues to smile for the cameras.

As he shakes off his new fans, Michael says, "Celebrity comes from the strangest of places. It's a fickle beast, Nico. Remember that."

"I know," he says, but he feels stupid.

His mood lifts as they continue through the palace. He admires the elegant halls and large courtyards, the imperial artefacts and the small, intimate gardens planted with plum and cypress and cherry. He clambers up the side of the dragon stairs and gazes at the emperor's throne, a gilt chair covered in yellow silk. He tries to imagine what it must have been like to be the emperor, but the idea is too vast for him to grasp fully.

Nico is fascinated by everything he sees, but when he turns to share his enthusiasm with Michael, he realises that Michael is anxious. Even when he stands still, his body seems to make tiny movements: his fingers twitch, his feet shift. The imperial palace unnerves him.

The wind picks up, moving dust around the Forbidden City. It smells of pollution rather than the desert, and it's gritty on the tongue and in the eyes. Michael pushes his sunglasses hard against the bridge of his nose as if to stop them from falling off.

Nico walks into the face of the wind. It blows his hair into his eyes and ruins the last vestiges of the careful style he'd created earlier. It doesn't matter. By now Nico knows that Michael is not attracted by artifice.

They continue their tour, walking quickly as the weather worsens. People begin to scatter, heading inside the long halls. The palace becomes deserted.

Nico is amused by the Starbucks situated in the corner of one courtyard. He points it out to Michael, who shakes his head and mutters about it being ridiculous. But Nico thinks it's funny: he hurries over to the kiosk and buys a tall mocha, topped with cream and sprinkled with powdered chocolate.

He stands in the wind-buffeted courtyard drinking his coffee and reflects on how it tastes the same no matter where you go in the world. He can't decide whether this is a good thing or not, and so he dismisses the thought with the same amount of care with which he will later toss the empty waxed-paper cup into the rubbish bin.

They take refuge from the wind in the harem quarters. The sound of the approaching storm is dulled, apart from a brief hiss over the roof-tiles and the occasional clatter of an unsecured shutter banging against a window-frame.

In one room they find a pretty girl dressed up in Qing Dynasty costume, with a tasselled hat that bobs and sways as she talks. She speaks to them in fast, almost incomprehensible English about the room they're in, about what they can see in the courtyard, and about the last of China's dynasties.

Nico's interest is piqued when she mentions foot binding. He asks about it in detail, brushing back his hair as he looks at the girl. She shows him her own foot, which is small and shapely in a black velvet slipper, and then she demonstrates how a Qing Dynasty woman's foot would have looked.

Nico exclaims with disgust and horror. The girl lifts her hands helplessly. It was the custom.

Michael stands by the windows and looks out into the courtyard. Without turning around, he says, "We'd better hurry if you want to see the rest of this place. It'll rain soon."

Nico thanks the girl, who nods to him in an approximation of a bow. As they walk away, he says, "Wasn't that great? Really interesting."

Michael shrugs. "I'm not that keen on history."

Nico almost stops walking. His steps falter, and when he resumes, his head spins with realisation.

Michael is famous for having no interest in history. It took years before the tifosi truly accepted him as one of their drivers: not because of his performance on-track, but because of his initial reluctance to learn Italian and because of his passive disinterest in the history of his team. For any driver to ignore team history was unthinkable; to ignore the history of the Scuderia was verging on treason.

But it's only now, when Michael reiterates the same line about a place unconnected with F1, a place so rich and spectacular with cultural heritage, that Nico understands what Michael is saying.

Michael is afraid of history. He ignores it and dismisses it because then it can't hurt him. He's afraid that he can't measure up to the past, even his own past. He claims that statistics don't mean anything to him, but that's because they form a part of a history that constantly judges not just the present, but also the future.

Nico realises that Michael is afraid that he won't be remembered next year, ten years, twenty years down the line. With the start of each season, his slate is wiped clean. There's no talk of how the team performed last year: it begins anew, with no follow-up, no excuses, no old glories relieved. The past is the past.

Michael lives in the present, ignoring history but trying to second-guess the future. That is why he cannot retire, even though he has been talking about such a possibility for the past five years. Testing the idea of a future of nothingness. It is a hard decision to make. Many champions before him have tried to do the same thing, but ended in continuing in F1 just a little longer than their sell-by date, only to creep away in ignominy.

Nico wonders which option Michael will choose, in the end. Either way, it is bound to cripple him. And that thought makes him ponder: is that why Michael likes to cripple his rivals, even if only emotionally, to make up for his own perceived future?

"That foot-binding thing," Nico says. "Didn't you find it interesting?"

"Not really." Michael looks up at the sky. The clouds are lowering. A heavy, acrid smell hangs above them. "It's just a way of controlling women. Sounds disgusting, if you ask me. Good job it was banned. Who'd want to cripple another person like that?"

"You do."

Michael stops in his tracks. He turns around slowly and lifts the sunglasses from his eyes to stare at Nico. "What did you say?"

"You cripple your rivals."

"Not like that."

"But you do."

Michael is silent. He folds the sunglasses into the collar of his shirt.

"Actually…" Nico takes a deep breath, "I'd like to try it."

Michael's expression does not change. They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Michael looks away. He makes that face, the one where no one can ever tell if he's amused or annoyed, and then he shakes his head. "You're sick."

Nico presses his advantage. "You want to do it to me."

Michael looks at him again, his eyes bright. "Now I know you're really sick."

Thunder rumbles overhead, and the first spots of rain begin to fall.   


* * *

They run from Tian'Anmen Gate and into the black Mercedes, hiding from the rain. Robinson looks back at them, judging how wet they are, and then he checks his watch and turns into the traffic. Instead of taking them back to the hotel, he drives to one side of the great grey walls of the imperial palace and squeezes the car through narrow streets until it's impossible for him to go any further.

He tells them that these are the hutongs, legacy of the Mongolians and prey of the modern bulldozer. "Grab some history while you still can," he advises them with a laugh, and gives directions to a Peking duck restaurant hidden away in the warren of alleyways.

Nico slides out of the Mercedes, careful to avoid bumping the paintwork. It's still raining, and he hops over the puddles in the muddy street. He presses himself flat against the wall of a house, sheltering beneath the overhang of the roof. He's caught in Robinson's headlights, and he lifts a hand against the glare as he waits for Michael to join him.

They walk through the rain together in silence. The restaurant is easy to find, occupying a ramshackle collection of buildings around a central courtyard. At first it's confusing to know where to go, but then a woman plucks at Nico's sleeve and leads them through a confusing maze of rooms. They're all small and basic, whitewashed walls and concrete floors, wooden chairs and plastic-topped tables.

Michael hesitates before he sits down. Nico is just as unsure, but he acts nonchalant, dropping into his seat as if he's eaten here before. He picks up the pair of disposable chopsticks from his side of the table and unpeels them from the paper envelope. They're joined at the top, and so he snaps the wood inexpertly.

Behind Michael, there's a selection of photographs tacked onto the wall. Nico glances at them, assuming they're shots of the restaurant owners and friends. Then he recognises Jet Li and Bill Clinton. Startled, he looks around the place and tries to imagine the former President of the United States eating here.

The woman returns and looks at them questioningly. She doesn't speak any language but Chinese. Michael shakes his head. Nico gets up and walks with the woman around the other tables in the room, pointing to the dishes he wants.

Within moments, they're served with tiny cups of tea and two bottles of Chinese beer that tastes like German lager. A plate of vegetables cooked in spicy soy sauce arrives immediately after, and Nico uses his chopsticks to pick at it.

"This place is all right," he says, when another three dishes are brought to the table. "A shame if they demolish it for a block of flats or something. They should preserve it as a piece of working history."

Michael takes a duck's heart and chews on it before he washes it down with a sip of beer. "You keep talking about history as if it's a good thing."

"And you always talk about it like it's something bad," Nico returns. "Why is that, Mike? I've always thought that history can teach us something."

"Maybe it can, for some people."

"But not for you?"

Michael shrugs and helps himself to some rice from his bowl.

"I guess history can also teach us things we don't want to know," Nico says carefully, with studied disinterest. He leans over his own rice bowl and stirs it around. "It can teach us how to change, for example. But there's no use in looking to history for lessons if we're not willing to heed them."

Michael lifts his gaze and gives Nico a mild look. "You think you can teach me something?"

Nico is quiet as, with great flourish, an entire duck with its flesh still alight is brought to their table. They make appreciative sounds for the chef, who then removes the duck to an adjacent table and begins to carve slices from it. Their waitress brings the pancakes, soy sauce and julienne vegetables that accompany Peking duck, and then a plate heaped high with steaming hot meat is placed between them.

As they stuff and roll the pancakes, Nico finally answers the question. "Of course I can teach you something. It's a poor master who learns nothing from his student. But perhaps I was talking about myself. I am the one who needs to learn from the past."

"From your father?" Michael takes a bite of his rolled pancake.

Nico shakes his head. "From your past."

"I see."

"You know I don't want you for sex." Nico has lowered his voice, but the words still sound shockingly loud.

"Little Nico, how you love to flatter me," Michael says dryly.

"I'm serious."

"You were the kinky one who wanted me to try foot binding."

Nico takes another pancake and folds duck meat into it. "As an object lesson."

Michael drains the beer from his glass and pours out the remainder of the bottle. "I have been known to have something of a foot fetish. Did Mika tell you?"

"No. We don't speak much. He – he…" Nico doesn't want to say that Mika is one of those who seem ashamed of him. "He didn't tell me."

Michael smiles slightly. "I didn't think he would."

Nico excuses himself and goes to the bathroom. It's a small, squalid affair: a room with a channel cut into the floor through which water gutters. He places a foot either side of the channel and pees into it, careful not to miss. Automatically he looks for a flush, but there isn't one.

He washes his hands at the sink and glances into the spotted mirror set into the tiled walls. Maybe it's the alienation of this country, but he feels unsettled. He's used to travelling; he's almost immune to culture shock. But China is different. It's struggling to be something new and mighty, but it hasn't yet found its feet.

A little like him.

Nico examines his reflection. He brushes a hand through his fringe. Already accustomed to seeing the homogeneous dark hair, dark eyes, golden skin all around him, he's shocked at how pale and blond he is. His face looks new. He wonders if it's the face of a traitor. He's never believed himself to be one. Patriotism is outmoded. People, like Starbucks coffee, are the same the world over.

He makes no apology for not living in Finland, not speaking Finnish. This is almost not an issue. No: his greatest act of treachery is against his father.

Nico wants to be like Michael. He doesn't want to be like Keke – flamboyant, argumentative, only once a WDC. Better to be like Michael, taciturn and cold and seven times a champion.

Some sons are proud of their fathers. Nico is not. Keke's shadow is long and dark, and while his surname opened doors for Nico, it also crushed him with an intolerable burden. How many other drivers in the paddock were so crippled before they could even walk?

There's been a few: but only a handful; and there's only one still racing today. He's wondered if Jacques feels the same, but Villeneuve seems too open now to be of any use to Nico; he wears his heart on his sleeve, and Nico can't think that this is a good thing.

So Michael is his hero. Michael, who has a history of using ingénues – Jenson, Kimi, Fernando – and playing them to his own advantage.

Nico knows he is embarking on a dangerous enterprise, but he believes that he will emerge from it in a stronger position. His relationship with Michael is not about emotional entanglement, and neither will he allow himself to be lured into the mind games for which his lover, his opponent, is justifiably famous.

He touches the mirror with his fingertips and sees the expression harden in his eyes. This is not about love, or sex, or power, or any kind of pleasure. This is about pain, and how to withstand it.

When Nico leaves the bathroom, he takes a wrong turn amidst the warren of rooms. He steps through a door and finds himself in the kitchen. The chefs pay no attention to him, and he is drawn by the fierce heat of the ovens on one side of the room. A fire burns there, gold and incandescent. Hanging from two rows of steel hooks are a dozen ducks, their naked skin basted and crisping. Their heads hang down and their feet are limp.

Nico stands there staring for a while, and then he goes to find Michael.   


* * *

The television is on as background noise. Nico can't understand what's being said, but he prefers to watch one of the Chinese channels rather than CNN or BBC World. He doesn't want to hear a language he recognises, in case he hears something that will put him off his decision. There's no such fear with this programme. It's some kind of period drama, where the men all have long hair and wear colourful robes that never seem to get in the way when they have swordfights.

Nico is sitting on the end of the bed, his feet nudged by a sponge in a bowl of warm, soapy water. A large white towel is folded across his knees, still heat-blushed from the electric rail in the bathroom. Another bowl stands beside the first. Also filled with warm water, it contains several lengths of bandages that float and expand, soaking.

There's a knock at the door. Nico calls, "It's open," and Michael comes in, carrying another two rolls of bandages. He lets the lock click shut on the door almost as an afterthought, and then he comes towards the bed and drops the tiny packets onto the quilt.

"I didn't know how many we'd need."

Nico is reassured by the pronoun. He tears open the plastic and lets the bandages unravel, one at a time, before he bends forward and prods them into the warm water.

Outside, the storm has worsened. Even with the television on, Nico can still hear the rain against the windows. It sounds like the sea, even though they are a long way from the coast. The windows are veiled with white gauze curtains, but now Michael goes over to them and draws the second, heavier layer of dark brown velvet across to block out the night.

When he comes back, Michael goes to kneel down and wash Nico's feet with the sponge, but Nico puts out a hand to stop him.

"I'll do it."

He leans down again and runs the sponge over and around his feet, starting at the ankle and then scrubbing at the instep and the toes. He knows that what will come later will hurt more than he can currently imagine, so he wants to enjoy this luxury of feeling now, when there is no pain.

His feet are soft and pliable from the water. He can feel the skin on his toes beginning to wrinkle. He lifts one foot free of the bowl and shakes it. Then he unfolds the towel and places it on the bed, and begins to dry his feet. Right foot: then left foot. Some water dribbles down his legs and onto the quilt, but it hardly matters. Nico concentrates on the feel of the towel: warm, dry, and slightly rough.

"My turn." Michael gets onto the bed with him, and Nico shifts back to give him more space to work. "Lie down."

Nico isn't sure that he wants to lie down. It would make him feel vulnerable, and he's nervous enough as it is. But then he nods and lies back, spreading his arms wide on either side of his body as if for balance.

He stares at the ceiling. The television continues its unintelligible dialogue. Nico takes a breath when he feels Michael's hands on his feet. There's a silvery sound, and then a strange sensation at his toes. He jerks his foot, and then realises that Michael is trimming his nails.

It seems too intimate, even for what he's asking. Nico blushes, bringing his arms across his stomach. He feels a little queasy, but cannot say anything. Instead he listens to the sharp snip of the nail scissors, until finally Michael is done.

Next, Michael takes a small bottle of oil and pours a quantity into his palm before he rubs his hands together. When he begins to stroke and pull at Nico's feet, it's done so skilfully that the embarrassment melts into pleasure.

Nico feels the slow burn of arousal tickle at him, starting quite literally from the tips of his toes and working its way up, like hemlock, until it reaches his heart. His cock twitches beneath his towelling bathrobe.

He reaches backwards and grabs a pillow, pulling it down the bed to stuff it beneath his head. Now he can see the television again. He tried not to look at Michael, who is tending to his feet with all the concentration of a professional masseur.

On the screen, two of the characters are fighting. Nico follows the complicated ballet of kung fu with glazed eyes. He's aware of the change in his breathing. He didn't plan on getting turned on, and wonders if it will be detrimental to the lesson.

Michael stops the massage and gently lowers Nico's feet back onto the towel. His hands resting just over the ankles, he asks, "You're sure you want to do this?"

Nico nods.

"Why?"

He tries to find a way to explain, but the words are not easy. In the end, Nico points towards the television. One of the characters is smashing bricks with one hand. "I know it's only a TV show," he says, "but there are men who do that for real. Smash ten bricks with their chin or their forehead. Lie on a bed of nails. Walk through fire. Why do they do it?"

Michael shrugs. "Usually they're monks. It's something religious."

"Not always." Nico stares at the screen. "Sometimes they do it to be the best."

There is no reply.

Nico leaves it a moment before he asks, "How did you feel when you broke your leg?"

"I don't remember."

"You were afraid." Nico answers his own question, and feels a stab of victory when Michael lowers his gaze. "But what were you afraid of? The pain: or of not racing, of seeing your team taken to victory by another man?"

Michael's face is red with anger. "I did not begrudge Eddie anything."

"But you preferred Mika to win."

"They were both worthy."

"You couldn't bear the idea of Eddie winning for Ferrari, for breaking that twenty-year drought they'd had. It had to be you, didn't it, even though you have no interest in history, even though you don't care about statistics!"

Nico falls silent, as if aware that he's gone too far.

Michael exhales heavily. His hands still on Nico's feet, he says, "I admit it. I was afraid."

When Nico tries to ask another question, he lifts a hand for silence. "I was afraid of all those things you said. I didn't know which was worse. Pain – physical pain – has always been a secret fear of mine. I had been lucky until then. But when it happened, and I was lying in hospital… when the shock wore off and I could feel again, I knew that mental pain is far more debilitating than physical pain."

Nico gazes at him.

"The doctors told me to convalesce for the rest of the season," Michael continues, his expression twisting. "How could I do that? The knowledge that Eddie was driving Ferrari towards victory ate at my soul. It burned me. It made the agony in my leg seem like nothing more than pins and needles. I knew that if I could walk, I could drive. I could sit in that Ferrari and withstand the pressure, even if I broke both my legs in the process.

"I wanted to get in the car and drive, not to win the manufacturer's championship – why the hell would I care about that! No – I did it because I knew it would throw Eddie. It would confuse him, destabilise him. And it worked. Mika won. Eddie lost."

The admission seems too much. Michael has lost the edge of his anger, but the tension is still there, just beneath the surface. He leans down almost clumsily and lifts the first of the bandages free of the water. It drips, its gauze grey and full.

"Make me like you," Nico says, his voice pleading. "I want to be able to withstand pain."

Michael gives him a strangely tender look. "If you lose the ability to feel pain, you also lose its balance: pleasure," he says in warning.

"I don't care," Nico says. "Teach me how to forget pain."

"Everyone's different," Michael says. "For me, pain and pleasure were cauterised by work. For you… Well, we'll find out."

He places a kiss to Nico's right foot, and then raises it up onto his knee. Carefully, as if he's done this a dozen times before, he begins to wrap the wet bandage around Nico's foot. At first it goes around the heel, to anchor it; then straight up and around the big toe, segregating it from the others. Then he bends Nico's other toes over, telling him to wiggle them down as far as they'll go; to arch his foot, if possible.

Nico grunts in concentration, the muscles in his right leg already straining. When the bandage closes over his smaller toes, he gasps in surprise. The surprise becomes pain as Michael runs the bandage directly down over his instep to pull it tight around the back of his heel.

One of his toes cracks. It's just a joint popping, but the sound terrifies him. The sudden sharp pain reminds him of the reality he will soon face, and he kicks out.

Michael holds him steady by the ankle as he reaches into the bowl for another bandage. Now the initial work has been done, he's rougher. He loops the bandage around and pulls on it tight, forcing Nico's foot to arch higher as his toes and heel are slowly pulled together.

Now it hurts. Nico is sweating with pain, his silky blond hair sticking dark and ragged to his forehead. The back of his neck is damp. His underarms feel slimy. He wants to spread his thighs to allow the temperature-controlled air to cool his body, but to his shame he's still hard, inexplicably so.

Another bandage. It moulds to his foot, slapping cold and wet and heavy over the previous bandages that cling and tighten around his flesh.

He could swear that Michael is enjoying this, but when he can bear to look, Nico sees only a terrible empathy. When Michael catches him looking, he strains on the bandage so hard that there's another crack from his toes.

Tears blind Nico's vision. The room goes hazy, the lights blurring. The television sounds subterranean. He will not cry, but now he screams: just once, a gasp and yowl rolled into one.

Michael lets go of his foot.

Nico brings his knees up, reaching down to claw at the bindings. His foot throbs. It feels like it's five times its normal size. Every movement, no matter how small, brings fresh agony. He curls onto his side and keens, still trying not to weep.

And then Michael takes gentle hold of his left foot.

"No!" Nico begs, and he kicks out. He can't bear more pain. But Michael is stronger than him, and when Nico tries to kick him again, he merely flips him onto his back and seizes his foot in a tight grip.

His robe gapes open from the waist down. Nico knows that Michael can see his cock standing tall, throbbing red with lust and weeping where he cannot. It pulses with each jarring shock of pain from his right foot, and as he feels the wet bandages begin to wrap around his left foot, he can't stop his hips from jerking up in helpless, desperate rhythm, as if he can fuck the pain.

Soon his left foot is a bundle of fire as devastating as his right. He feels all of his toes crack this time, and he yells in fear that they really have broken; that he will be forced to start the weekend's racing with shattered bones. This fear overrides the sheer physical agony of it, and he remembers what Michael said before this began.

And then it's finished.

Michael lifts both of Nico's feet into the air so he can see the result. Encased in wet bandages, they look grossly deformed. He tries to imagine them smaller, like a woman's feet, trained to suffer this agony from the age of four years old. He tries to imagine what it must be like to have your mother break your small toes; to have your feet unwrapped one day and to see dead flesh peeling away with the bindings.

Nico doesn't know how those women endured it. And then it comes to him: they endured it because they had to, because it was a means to an end. Those with the tiniest feet won the richest husband. No pain, no gain.

He takes a deep breath and stops gasping. He sinks back into the quilt. The agony settles into his consciousness, penetrating through to every part of him. He begins to feel light-headed: not with pain, but with another feeling. Endorphins, he supposes; for this is a deep, intense sensation that he's never felt before. He even manages to smile when Michael leans over to kiss him.

He lies on the bed and allows himself to drift on the razor's edge of ecstasy and pain as Michael unties his robe and begins to suck his cock. Nico can barely feel such a commonplace pleasure, even though he watches Michael take him deeper, working him harder. Even Michael's finger between his thighs, brushing over the perineum, wriggling between his buttocks, does nothing for him that the foot binding has not already done, but on a greater and more magnificent scale.

Nico doesn't realise that he can't come.

It's only when Michael sits up and tears at the bandages that he knows there's something wrong. When Michael reaches onto the floor and retrieves the nail scissors, Nico feels a distant twinge of alarm. He doesn't want to lose this bubble of beyond-pain, beyond-pleasure. He tries to tell Michael this, but all that comes out is a garble of sound as unintelligible to him as Chinese.

Pain reawakens and scores through him as Michael cuts savagely at the wet bandages. His toes unfurl. His insteps straighten. Everything aches and sears, and agony white-hot and intense blasts into every nerve of his body. The pain crashes over him, robbing him of his safe place; but as it ebbs, pleasure follows it.

Nico curls up again in instinctive reaction. His hands go to his groin, first in protection, and then to find release. His mewls of pain become grunts of helpless pleasure, and then the lesson is over.

He lies there, drained. Oddly, he feels strong.

"If I can take this," Nico says, his voice husky with the memory of pain and the yells of pleasure, "if I can take this, I can take anything. And because I can take anything, I can win."

Beside him, Michael says, "And so you may, in time. But don't run before you can walk."

He turns off the light. Outside, the storm rages on.


End file.
